


Take me out of this dull world

by Aethelar



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Depression, Faerie Bilbo, Gen, Mystery, No one ring, References to Suicide, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1232935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelar/pseuds/Aethelar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Faeries were banished from Middle Earth years ago, but their legacy remained with the Tooks. Belladonna's heart breaks for her son when she realises his heritage, but she is not around to stop him deciding to leave the safety of the Shire and join the Dwarves on their adventure.</p><p>It is a decision that will have consequences far beyond any that Bilbo could have imagined, because there was a reason the Fae were driven out, and a reason that Belladonna had been so afraid for her son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take me out of this dull world

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from W. B. Yeats:
> 
>  
> 
> _“Faeries, come take me out of this dull world,_  
>  _For I would ride with you upon the wind,_  
>  _Run on the top of the dishevelled tide,_  
>  _And dance upon the mountains like a flame.”_

There’s an old legend claiming that a rabbit lives in the moon. He spends his time working with his pestle and mortar, and when the moon is full and bright, he pours out the precious concoction he has created. Years ago the Faeries would swarm on the night of the full moon and dance with the animals in the rain, laughing with each magic laden drop that fell to the ground. The crops never grew so strong nor the flowers bloomed so brightly as in the fields where the Faeries danced.

But there was a cost. There was always a cost, and the price the Faeries demanded was too high. No one came to defend them when the Elves rose against them in the great Burning, and no one mourned when the last Faerie died. The land became slowly harsher, less fertile and less green, and across Middle Earth the races adapted to life without the moon’s treacherous children. 

Every race, that is, but one.

In the Shire, the land grew green and fertile, and if the Took family took to decorating their smials with ancient charms, silver bells and delicate chains strung over every door, well - they were Tooks. They were always a bit strange, and that was fine.

But as Belladonna gathered her sleeping child into her arms and gently smoothed his rain soaked hair, she couldn’t help but wish that Bilbo had been spared the strangeness. He reached for her and she lowered her head so that he could tangle his fingers, his thieving, Fairy fingers in her hair, and she promised herself that Bungo would never know. Her chest ached, soft and muted and distant, and she allowed herself to cry just that once for the love that Bilbo had stolen from her. 

Bilbo remembered nothing of it the next morning, and Belladonna wondered silently how many other times the fauntling had been out, dancing in the rain under the full moon. She hung the ancient Tookish charms around Bag End and put away Bilbo’s adventure books with a heavy heart.

“You must never leave the Shire, Bilbo,” she told him, and made him repeat his promise again and again until she was sure he would be safe.

And for many years, that was enough. Bilbo grew to be a respectable Hobbit, one who had never stepped beyond the borders of the Shire and had no desire to do so. One who took great pride in his garden and his smial, and spent many a day carefully polishing his mother’s silver charms without ever knowing why.

Then the Grey Wizard came, and the comfortable smial was invaded by a company of Dwarves. As they gathered in the firelight and sang of far off places and ancient homes, Bilbo quite forgot his promise to his mother.

He was going on an adventure.

**i**

“This,” Bilbo said firmly, “Is a rubbish adventure.” Bofur merely laughed at him, hunching forwards in his saddle to shield himself as best he could from the pouring rain.

“Oh come now,” the cheerful Dwarf said. “You’ve had a dramatic battle against a foul enemy and uncovered a hoard of treasure – what more could you want?”

Bilbo snorted. “A dramatic battle?” he asked. “I can clearly see how. Being used as a troll handkerchief, there’s no better subject for a rousing song!”

“Weellll,” Bofur drew the word out considering. Bilbo jabbed his finger at him as threateningly as he could manage.

“No. Absolutely not. We’ve had quite enough of what Bilbo Baggins hates, and I think I shall cry if you start flinging plates around here.”

“Not all of our songs involve throwing things!” Bofur protested. He seemed about to continue, but his words were drowned out in the crash of thunder that echoed across the sky.

Bilbo did not jump; that was Myrtle, though she settled quickly enough as he laid a hand on her withers. Nor did he whimper in fright; that was his other passenger – wait, his other passenger?

“All right there, lad?” Bofur asked, peering across at Bilbo as best he could in the dark.

There was a pause.

“Lad?” Bofur asked again, nudging his pony over to walk closer to Bilbo.

“I appear to have acquired a fox,” Bilbo said in a rather strange voice.

“A fox?” Bofur repeated, somewhat bemused.

“A fox, and I do believe there’s a family of field mice nesting in my hood.” There was another pause, then Bilbo huffed resignedly. “I do hope Myrtle doesn’t mind.”

Bofur had the gall to laugh at him.

**ii**

Bilbo was expecting many difficulties in battle. Usually, when he envisaged them, they revolved around blood and shouting and the dangerously high risk of getting hit with the pointy end of a great chunk of metal. He had not predicted quite this level of frustration.

“How am I supposed to fight them if you keep avoiding me?” he yelled in annoyance at a nearby Warg. From the guttural sounds and harsh gestures of its rider, he suspected the Orc asked it much the same thing. The monstrous beast grumbled apologetically, but maintained at least a twelve foot distance around Bilbo until it could veer off to the side and bear down on Dori instead.

“Stop being so rude!” Bilbo called after it, “And let me kill an Orc!” A second Warg, approaching from his left, paused warily. It looked between Bilbo and the bloodied, armoured Orc astride it, and for a second Bilbo held his breath in anticipation. Then the Orc growled out a command and the Warg whined, hesitating and back pedalling until  it had managed to sidestep around Bilbo in an insultingly wide circle. It gave him a final tail flip, then leapt after Fíli with a war like snarl.

Bilbo took a certain justified pleasure in seeing it shot down by one of Kíli’s arrows.

He spent the rest of the battle attempting to engage any Orc he could, only to be summarily thwarted each time by the Wargs. When he finally came across an Orc on foot, he was too frustrated by the whole situation to remember to be afraid, and cut down the unfortunate create with one savage thrust.

The Dwarves were quite impressed with it, so they told him. Didn’t think he had it in him. Such admiring ferocity for one so small, and all that.

Bilbo barely restrained himself from sticking his tongue out at them.

**iii**

Rivendell was… Well, it was pretty. Bilbo would give it that. And it had a good library, where he ended up spending most of his time. And the Elves were gracious hosts, for all they seemed to have forgotten that their guests ate meat alongside their assorted leaves.

Bilbo didn’t like it.

Something about the last homely house set him on edge; everywhere he went he felt like someone was watching him, something was weighing down on him. Every time he passed a door way he could swear he heard a soft, high tinkling, like a set of tiny silver bells or the links of a delicate chain. The sound reminded him of Bag End and he thought it should have been comforting, but the delicate chimes were too _loud_ even though he could barely hear them and served only to make him uneasy and tense.

One night, after they’d been at Rivendell for almost a fortnight, he couldn’t sleep. He sat on the broad window sill and stared out at the full moon and the rain and _yearned_ with his very soul – for what, he didn’t know. He was grumpy and bitter the next day, though he tried to hide it as well as he could, and grit his teeth against the constant sound of bells just on the edge of his consciousness.

Their departure could not come swift enough as far as Bilbo was concerned. Soft beds and dry clothes were worth a lot to him, but they were not worth this.

**iv**

His mood improved the further they got away from the Elves, but then again, it didn’t. Bilbo felt constantly off kilter, like something was missing, something he was supposed to have done that he had forgotten to do; the higher they got into the rocky, bare slopes of the Misty Mountains, the worse he felt. His head swam and his legs ached, and he had only the birds to keep him company – rabbits and foxes and fallow deer didn’t live at that altitude. He didn’t know why he should care. If anything, he should be grateful that he wasn’t guarding his supper from a dozen curious noses, but somehow gratefulness eluded him.

What little cheer Bilbo had managed to preserve deserted him when Thorin snarled and called him a burden, a detriment to the company. A danger. Bilbo stared ahead into the raging storm as if by sheer force of will he could transport himself to the mountain tops where he would be free to throw his head back and _scream_ , but his feet stayed resolutely connected to the unforgiving cliff face. He scowled at the back of Thorin’s hood, but it was a poor substitute.

Bilbo turned the words over in his mind that night as the Dwarves bedded down in a surprisingly dry cave. He was awake when the storm ceased and the heavy clouds cleared to allow the silver light of the waxing moon into the cave. He stared at the moon with his fingers itching and his chest aching until he could barely breath for it. It called to him, low and rough and _urgent_ in a way that Bilbo didn’t understand, didn’t know why it wanted him to come and he didn’t know why he felt so strangely out of place in the stone mountain cave and he was just so _sick_ of _not knowing why_ –

He followed the moon. If Bofur hadn’t noticed him then he would have gone completely, made his way out of the mountains and washed up who knew where. He would probably have ended up as a remote woodland hermit, smoking a pipe that was far too strong and keeping a bird’s nest under his hat like Gandalf’s mad friend.

When he thought about it like that, Bilbo was quite glad that Bofur noticed him, even given the fall and the goblins and everything else that came after.

**v**

He hit the ground with a sickening crack that reverberated around his skull. He was vaguely aware of the goblin’s cries of pain as it landed nearby, but was too distracted by the sharp agony of his ribs. He pressed his hands to his side to try and staunch the bleeding and bit his tongue, fighting against the darkness that was creeping across his vision. The last thing he was aware of before unconsciousness took him was the blue glow of his sword, his blood stained letter opener, flickering and dying.

When Bilbo woke he was outside and running, and his waistcoat was missing its brass buttons and stained with a strange, silver liquid. He held his arms out to the stars and laughed at the moon and decided not to care, just for a bit. He would rather be alive to wonder why than lie dying under the goblin caves and know.

**vi**

Bilbo didn’t know what possessed him to leap at the Orc like an enraged squirrel, but leap he did, pointy end first. He scrambled to stand over Thorin’s prone form, glaring balefully at the white Warg as it started to back hesitantly away from him.

“Don’t even think about it,” he growled at it. “No one’s running away until I’ve killed something.” The Warg paused, obviously torn between whatever instinct made it want to leave Bilbo alone and its obedience to the pale Orc that commanded it.

“Fool,” the pale Orc spat, raising its remaining arm with an almost lethargic slowness and baring it’s dirty blade.

“Oh,” Bilbo hurried to say, his hands trembling as the Orc advanced, “I wasn’t talking to you – please don’t take offense – could you just – _good grief Kíli talk about leaving it to the last possible moment!”_

What followed was a slightly mad bout of sword waving and stick-em-with-the-pointy-end-ing during which all of Dwalin’s patient teaching went quite out of his head. The Orcs surged forwards, pressing the company against the cliff face and giving nobody much space to manoeuvre into position.

Bilbo didn’t even notice how close he had got to it until he slammed his toothpick sword into an Orc’s chest (right _through_ the armour, which was pretty nifty, but completely baffling – Hobbits simply didn’t _have_ that much upper body strength) and took a step back to pull it free. He spent a horrific moment just on the edge, one arm pin wheeling furiously as he tipped slowly backwards. He thought he saw Fíli mouth his name in shock but he heard nothing – and then he was falling, arms outstretched with the wind whistling past. He had the sudden, inexplicable thought that _if it was raining, if the moon was shining just a bit brighter, this wouldn’t be such a problem_.

Then talons closed around him as Bilbo was snatched from the air, and after a dizzy and breathless moment as his chest slammed against them a bit too hard, Bilbo laughed. “Hobbits might not like to fly,” he yelled up to his rescuer, “But I think it to be the most marvellous thing!” Its answering screech may have been a bit smug, but equally that may just have been Bilbo’s imagination. Either way he grinned in reply, leaning forwards out of his talon cage and whooping with glee.

**vii**

Being accepted by the company was grand. Definitely something wonderful, brilliant, _stupendous_ in fact. Absolutely spiffing with a bloody great cherry on top, but _not_ while he was trying to have a bath, _please and thank you!_

“Why are you staying over there, Bilbo? It’s barely deep enough to cover you!”

“It’s quite deep enough for me, Fíli,” Bilbo answered with admirable lack of expletives.

“But if you come out here, you can swim!”

“Hobbits aren’t very good at swimming, Kíli.”

“You can’t _swim?_ ” (cough, splutter, outraged splashing sounds)

“Not really Fíli, no.”

“But it’s swimming!” (illustrative hand wavings)

“Yes, Kíli, I gathered that.”

“We’ll teach you!” (enthusiastic paddling noises)

“No thank you. I’m quite alright not knowing how to swim.”

“Fíli, I’ll get his legs, you hold his head up.” (approaching menace, abort, _abort)_

“What – _let go of me –”_ Bilbo’s furious protest trailed off into a garbled cry as Kíli swept his feet out from underneath him and his head was suddenly about a foot underneath the surface.

Water flooded Bilbo’s nose and as he opened his mouth to scream and gasp for air that wasn’t there he found himself choking on great mouthfuls of muddy, freezing water. He struggled instinctively, kicking out at Kíli with a strength he didn’t know he had and making the young Dwarf drop him with a grunt of pain. Something caught in his hair – _it was holding his head down it was going to drown him get it off get it off get it **off**_ **–** and he twisted out of its grip, flailing his hands at it in panic. Up was down and down was up and any second now, his vision would start darkening and he’d feel an oppressive band around his chest as he ran out of air, he had to try and swim and struggle and not give in because _any second now he was going to die._

Any second now.

_(his chest was on fire and something was stretched to breaking and it hurt it hurt it hurt)_

Any. Second. Now.

_(he gulped his last breath of air and this was it, he’d died, and with a great shift it **bRoKE** )_

_…_

Huh.

Apparently, Bilbo could breathe underwater. How nice for him.

He stopped struggling, hanging limply in the water and allowing himself to float face down as he stared around himself in confusion. He could see a flock of minnows hovering anxiously below him, and down on the muddy river bed a larger fish peering curiously out of the reeds. A pike, perhaps? Did they have pike outside the Shire? He held his hands out to the fish and they swarmed towards him – the pike with considerably more self-composure than the minnows, which clustered around his hand like nothing so much as a litter of puppies, eagerly nipping his finger tips and brushing up against his palm. He laughed, and watched in fascination as the air flowed past his eyes in a mass of bubbles.

Hands grasped him suddenly, one around his waist, the other gripping too tightly at the back of his neck. He was wrenched from the water in an abrupt shock of cold as the evening air hit his wet skin, and for a moment the air felt dangerous and wrong and he tried frantically to get back to the water where he could breathe. Then his back hit the ground with a painful thud and air rushed into his lungs, delicious, sweet air, that most brilliant and _fantastic_ of life giving substances!

He was vaguely aware of people shouting his name, but he ignored them in favour of being sick. He felt calloused hands turn him over as he retched what felt like the entire contents of the river, coughing until his throat was sore from bile and his stomach ached.

“- all right, laddie,” someone was saying, rubbing his back as though he were a frightened fauntling. “We’ve got you, you’re safe now laddie, back with us in the land of the living.”

Bilbo stayed on his elbows and knees, unconcerned about his nakedness as he focussed on breathing in that beautiful, wondrous air.

“I’m going to strangle them,” Bilbo finally ground out. The hand rubbing his back left as the person laughed weakly and helped him sit up. Someone else draped a large cloak around his shoulders and he glanced up with a grateful smile – Thorin, Thorin’s cloak around his shoulders.

“You would be well within your rights,” the Dwarf king said grimly. Bilbo followed his gaze to where Fíli and Kíli were hovering, faces stricken and eyes wide with remorse. He stared curiously at purpling bruise on Kíli’s stomach and the deep scratch marks down Fíli’s arm, and couldn’t help but think they didn’t look like Warg wounds. It was nothing more than a passing thought though, and Bilbo quite forgot it among the fussing and the apologies and soothing a menagerie of panicking Dwarves.

**viii**

Bilbo was jumpy, after that. Not nervous, not afraid, just restless. After his brush with death (though he was never in danger or dying, not really) the company seemed determined to protect him from – well, everything. He was given no chores, no night watches or commands to gather firewood. He was positioned right in the centre of the comfiest log when they stopped for dinner, and given the largest, meatiest bowl of stew. Wherever he laid his bedroll for the night, he found Dwalin on his outside and Bofur on his inside, immovable barriers against whatever the night may throw at him. And Kíli and Fíli! Once he had persuaded them that he didn’t hate them, that he honestly, truthfully didn’t blame them (much) and that he wasn’t going send them away from him or carry out his threat to strangle them, once he had promised them that he couldn’t get them to leave him alone.

He tried dropping back and talking to Gandalf as much as possible, as the young Durin heirs were least a touch better behaved around the old wizard. Unfortunately Gandalf seemed somewhat preoccupied; he kept muttering to himself about something and squinting dubiously at Bilbo. In the end, Bilbo gave up trying to talk to him and became quite practiced at holding one sided conversations with whichever woodland critter decided to accompany him that day.

It wasn’t the most interesting of ways to pass the time, but they were nearing Gandalf’s friend – it wouldn’t be more than a day or so until they were able to fully rest. It would be a load off everyone’s shoulders, not least of all Oin who grumbled constantly about the state of Thorin’s wounds and the extent to which he was exerting himself instead of letting them heal like any sensible Dwarf would, yes Thorin, _any_ sensible Dwarf because kings did kingly things but _healers_ knew how to make heal people – even kings! – after they were idiot enough to almost get their _chest caved in_ by an Orcish mace. Listening to the old Dwarf rant, you’d be forgiven for thinking that Thorin had acquired his injury on purpose.

**ix**

_He awoke to the first gentle caress of the full moon, its light a familiar, feather touch on his skin that sent chills through him. He rose quickly, petting the fox and the fawn that had curled up beside him and calling to the brown owl in the tree to let them know that it was time. On silent feet and silent wings they ghosted across the campsite, following the beckoning call of the moon._

_On the edge of the campsite he passed two mortal folk. They seemed surprised at his presence, but he paid them no mind and ignored their frantic calls. They were of no consequence, even when one of them left their post to come after him. This night was for him, for him and the moon and the stars and the rain and his feet were aching for want of the dance._

_The moon led him to a clearing, gnarled tree roots giving way to soft loam floor and the odd, hardy flower. He stood in the centre and lifted his face to the moon. The wind ruffled his clothes in a loving caress, then all fell still as he waited, silent and unmoving, for the dance to begin._

_The first raindrop, ringing out a high, clear note. His lips curved into a smile._

_The sounds hung in the air for a second and he rocked forwards onto the ball of his feet. Then –_

_Oh, then the music started as the rain fell all around, each raindrop a single, perfect note adding its voice to the ethereal choir. He laughed and let his feet carry him, delighting in every step and every beat of the dance because this, this was what he was born for, what he had been created to do. He leapt into the air and let the wind catch him, leaning back into its embrace and laughing again as he tumbled through the air. The moon shone overhead, brilliant and glittering through the rain, and he grinned in pure, unadulterated joy as he spun and twirled and raced the rabbits around the clearing._

_A sound made him pause, made him look up to see who had intruded on his dance. It was a mortal, one of the two he had passed at the campsite, and as he came closer he saw that it was young. There was innocence in its heart, innocence and light, and his fingers were gentle as he took the light and cradled it close. It’s beautiful, he told the mortal, staring at the heart in reverence. And it was; there was joy and laughter in the heart, shining with a fierce love and a simple happiness that made him lift it to the moon in wonder. It was precious, too precious to be left to the harsh realities of the mortal world, so he turned to the mortal with a solemn smile. I’ll look after it for you, he said, I’ll protect it and keep it safe. The mortal blinked, looking at him with incomprehension and fear, and he laughed. The music of the rain called to him, and he forgot the mortal and turned back to his dance with the moon and the rain drops and the rabbits leaping over the tree roots._

**x**

“But Gandalf, he doesn’t remember anything – neither of them do!” Fíli was saying. Bilbo paused just outside the door, hesitating. Fíli had been strange ever since they had arrived at Beorn’s house, or even a day or so before. Not even Kíli knew what had upset him which had the younger Dwarf worried sick; he _always_ knew what was bothering Fíli.

“No, and it must stay that way,” Gandalf said. Something about the seriousness of his tone made Bilbo’s stomach twist uncomfortably; he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be eavesdropping like this. But if Fíli was worried enough to go to Gandalf about it – well, shouldn’t Bilbo know as much as he could so that he could help?

“Their lack of knowledge is what protects them, Fíli. It is old magic, far older than any I have ever cast – but while they know not of it, it is weak. If they learn of it, if they _believe_ it, then it will take over their minds and destroy them.”

There was a huffing sound, a gentle clanking of beads that suggested Fíli was running a hand through his hair. “And in the mean time?” he asked, his voice agitated. “Will it hurt them? Is Bilbo dangerous?”

Bilbo reeled back as if stung. _Dangerous?_ Him? He wasn’t – he couldn’t be – because he was aware that something strange was going on, and he wasn’t ignoring it on purpose, it’s just that it never seemed to matter that much, and really, really there was nothing dangerous in a rabbit and a couple of song birds, surely!

Gandalf sighed, and Bilbo’s heart leapt to his throat to hear him sound so old. _No,_ he begged the wizard silently. _Tell him no, I’m not dangerous, I can’t be dangerous._

“He can be,” Gandalf said, his voice heavy with regret, and Bilbo felt the world stop turning. “Only when the moon is full, and only to those that approach him.”

No, no no no no no it wasn’t true he _wasn’t dangerous to anyone Gandalf you’ve got it wrong –_

“But no further harm will come to Kíli, if you keep him away from Bilbo.”

_Away from me? Gandalf you’ve gone mad, your age has caught up with you and you’ve gone senile at last, because I never hurt anyone and **I’m not dangerous**_

“No Bilbo. Right,” Fíli said with a solemn seriousness that made Bilbo want to giggle at the ridiculousness of the situation. “And other than that, he’ll be – ” Fíli’s voice broke here, betraying the fear he felt for his brother – “He’ll be ok?”

“As much as anyone would be,” Gandalf soothed. Bilbo stumbled back, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth to stop himself from crying out. From Beorn’s impressively large hall he heard the other Dwarves’ raucous chatter, Kíli’s gleeful voice rising above them, and how could he possibly have hurt Kíli when he still laughed like that? He turned away, almost falling out into the garden in his need to get away. He had lost his appetite, and he hadn’t the courage to face Gandalf or Fíli now to tell them that dinner was on the table – they’d figure it out soon enough, he was sure. And Gandalf would probably notice his absence and know that he’d been eavesdropping, and Bilbo wondered idly if the wizard would let him continue the quest with the Dwarves.

“I don’t mean to be a danger,” he told the bees that came up to him curiously. “If I knew what it was I’d done, I’d try my best to undo it.” His throat was strangely tight and his eyes were itchy, but he wasn’t crying. “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he whispered hoarsely. One of Beorn’s sheep rested its head on his knee, staring up at him with doleful eyes. Bilbo sank his hand into its soft fleece and tried not to think about the way the Wargs were afraid of him and the fish had swum up to meet him in the river when he hadn’t drowned.

**xi**

Bilbo was subdued in the Mirkwood. If anyone asked, he told them – truthfully – that the forest felt wrong, that he didn’t like not being able to see the sky, and that he missed Gandalf. He didn’t tell them that Gandalf had thought him a danger, that somehow he’d hurt Kíli, and that when the next full moon came the company were very much at risk from him.

He tried to entertain himself on the long, depressing walks through the grey forest by thinking up ever more ridiculous ways in which he was a threat to the Dwarves. Perhaps he was a werewolf, one of those strange tales that trickled in sometimes with the traders from Bree, of Men who had lost themselves and ran with the wild animals and howled to the moon? Or perhaps he was a dragon – imagine that! He imagined a dragon of Bag End, hoarding doilies and carefully polishing his silver spoons. The Dwarves would have been in trouble if he was; Bilbo doubted any dragon would take kindly to a Dwarf pack throwing his crockery around and _singing_ about it as though it were a normal occurrence.

“Blunt the knives, bend the forks,” he mumbled to himself. “Smash the bottles and burn the corks.”

If he could go back to those days, he wondered, when he had cared so much about his mother’s fine West Farthing pottery, would he do it?

“Chip the glasses and crack the plates…”

Could he do it?

“That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates.”

No, he didn’t think he could. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End had hated mess, had hated chipped glasses and cracked plates and Dwarves mistaking his doilies for dish cloths and treading mud into his carpet. But Bilbo hated Orcs and nights when it rained too much for a fire and the strange irritable silence that hung over the company as they felt their way through the Mirkwood. Bilbo hated death and the thought of his Dwarves getting hurt and Bilbo _hated_ being a danger to people and not understanding _why_.

He doubted that Bilbo Baggins of Bag End would understand. He was sure, in fact, that Bilbo Baggins of Bag End would have frowned at him disapprovingly and told him to buck up and get over it. Such nonsense, the portly creature would have said. Hobbits are dangers to no one; no respectable creature would stand for such a thing.

Bilbo Baggins of Bag End was a fussy, self-righteous _idiot_ and if he were here then Bilbo would take great pleasure in throwing him to a horde of Orcs and watching them tear him apart. He grinned savagely at the thought and turned his attention back to the never ending, winding path through the gloomy trees.

**xii**

The full moon, when it came, didn’t penetrate the Mirkwood. It could, Bilbo knew, in the strange way that he knew when it would rain or how many of the drooping flowers in the bramble bush behind him were going to bear fruit. He could call the moon and it would answer and he could… he could…

He didn’t know what he could do, but he knew he would be a danger. He forced himself to stay away, gripped his bare hand around his sword until silvery blood ran down the blade and his eyes were gritty and sore from the effort of staying awake and alert, but he refused to let himself be tempted by the moon.

Fíli watched him through the night and seemed almost thoughtful, though his gaze was often distracted by Kíli’s fitful sleep. Bilbo tried not to listen to the younger Dwarves strained whimpers but he couldn’t help it – Kíli was hurting and it was all his fault, and he didn’t know what he could do to help.

**xiii**

The spiders didn’t attack Bilbo. They hovered around him awkwardly and skittered out of his way when Bilbo ran towards them until he felt like he could scream. Kíli whooped and laughed, deliberately placing himself as close to Bilbo as possible so that he could shoot his arrows in peace. _(And he’s happy, he’s smiling, and maybe Bilbo imagined that night when he couldn’t sleep. But Kíli’s face is drawn and his eyes are dull and his laugh is too thin despite his cheer and Bilbo knows better than to kid himself.)_

“Mighty handy this trick of yours, Bilbo!” Kíli shouted over the noise. Bilbo tried his best to smile, but he was the only one of the group whose weapon was unbloodied and it sat wrongly with him. He glanced over the group and saw Fíli looking his way with open worry on his face, and something in Bilbo _hurt_. Even faced with giant spiders and overwhelming odds, Fíli feared what Bilbo would do to his brother. Bilbo wanted to shake him, to yell and cry and ask him _why am I dangerous?_

He looked away with a shuttered expression and moved to the nearest spider in movements too quick for a Hobbit to make, too quick for the beast to escape. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Fíli move in to cover Kíli’s back, and he refused to care that the Dwarf was too afraid to cover his.

**xiv**

Bilbo cut them loose, but he couldn’t find Thorin. He looked again, he checked every nest, he even _asked_ the spiders because if he was cursed with an unfathomable connection to the twisted creatures then he may as well use it. They clicked their fangs consolingly but Thorin remains lost, and when the Elves came, the spiders carried him off and shielded him with their bodies. Bilbo hammered at their legs with his fists and demanded they take him back to his friends, but the spiders were insistent.

 _It isn’t safe_ , they said, and _We will care for you_. They presented him with the rotting corpse of a deer and Bilbo tried hard not to throw up. What does it say about him, he wondered, that the foul, dark creations of the Mirkwood were trying to care for him?

**xv**

The Dwarves were glad to see him, when he found them. They were kept in separate cages in pairs or sometimes in threes, and Bilbo visited them when he could. He kept a starling on his shoulder and sent harvest mice to scout the corridors and always, always his eyes were watching for the flash of the butterflies’ wings that told him when an Elf was coming. He slept little and ate less, but though he grew too thin he didn’t starve and after a time he forgot what it was like to be hungry.

Bilbo thought of breathing underwater when he should have drowned and wondered if he was too dangerous to die.

**xvi**

The full moon came again, and Bilbo could not deny himself a second time. He took himself as far away from the Dwarves as he could and found the bathing pools, the large, stone basins carved into the side of the rock with an entire side of the cavern open to the air. He looked out over the forest and watched the moon rise and this time, this time he was awake when the rain fell. He had not rested in a week. He thought he would miss sleep more than he did.

He couldn’t feel the rain, not from inside the cave, but he could hear the melody and feel the pull of the moon, and he was dancing before he knew it. His feet skidded across the surface of the bathing pools and the starling sang on his shoulder and he didn’t even leave a ripple to mark his presence on the still water.

It was soothing, in a way. He held his hands out before him on instinct and summoned a host of lights that resolved themselves into pearly, translucent spirits. They were the animals, one for every creature he had entranced, every simple heart he had stolen without ever knowing it. The starling’s song was joined in harmony by a thousand other birds singing only for Bilbo and a herd of rabbits danced around his feet and for a moment, for a moment, Bilbo dared to laugh. He failed to see how this could be dangerous or bad or wrong; if this was who he was, then he didn’t see why he should be afraid.

He reached to the moon and pulled down a star, and when he breathed on the glowing jewel in his palm he saw his mother. She was young, younger than when she died, and when she stepped out onto the lake Bilbo remembered with startling clarity the night he stole her heart.

“Oh,” he breathed, soft and pained, and he understood. There was another star in the sky, one that held Kíli’s heart, and he wondered when the Dwarf would notice that it was gone. “I’m sorry,” he told his mother, and tried not to remember the way she stood dry eyed at his father’s funeral and how she never smiled for anyone but him.

She smiled for him then, a sad, aching smile, and Bilbo gathered her back to her diamond star and blew her gently to the sky. He stood on the lip of the bathing pool and stared at the moon and tried to cry, but though his eyes hurt and his throat was tight, it was only the rain that fell.

The arrow, when it struck him, was an almost welcome burst of pain. It hit his back and penetrated through to his heart – an excellent shot. A killing blow. He turned to the auburn haired Elf with a blank gaze.

“Faerie demon,” the Elf spat, her stance rigid with hatred as she loosed another arrow into Bilbo’s heart.

“You should shoot at the moon,” Bilbo told her, and he wondered if it would work.

The Elf backed away, her hatred fading into fear. It made her heart dim, the bright and merry heart of a Wood Elf, and Bilbo had reached for it before his thoughts caught up with his actions. By then it was too late; she had slumped to the floor in wordless agony, and her heart was a glowing diamond in Bilbo’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” he told her, and hated himself for it. He tried to offer it back but a heart, once stolen, cannot be return. Without their hearts, the Elves fade, and the Elf maiden had already begun to die. “I’ll look after it for you,” Bilbo promised, though he knew the words brought no comfort. “I’ll protect it and keep it safe.” He offered the heart to the moon and placed it in the sky next to Kíli, and wondered what could have been if Kíli and the Elf had both kept their hearts. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

The moon sunk and the music of the raindrops died away, and Bilbo knew then that Gandalf was right and he was dangerous. Worse, he knew that Gandalf was wrong and Kíli would not be ok, not as much as anybody would be, not even if Fíli kept him far from Bilbo.

The fading Elf had retreated and Bilbo wondered if she was raising the alarm. He pulled the arrows out of his chest where his heart should have been and hoped that the Elves would have more success in their hunt when the moon was gone.

The starling sang a questioning note, but Bilbo had no answer.

**xvii**

“Barrels, Master Hobbit?” Dwalin said incredulously.

“Barrels,” Bilbo affirmed tiredly. He rubbed distractedly at his chest and counted the barrels again. There would be enough – he had checked them three times already, but for some reason he couldn’t stop himself from going over the numbers and the plan again.

“Well, why not?” Ori asked, stepping forwards and slinging an arm over Bilbo’s shoulders. “It’s a reasonable plan, as long as no one drowns, of course, and I don’t see why it shouldn’t work.”

Bilbo shrugged Ori’s arm off uncomfortably. “Yes, thank you Ori,” he said dryly. “With such inspirational support I can hardly see why _anyone_ would not leap at the chance to career down the river in a wooden death trap.”

“I thought you were supposed to be convincing us, laddie!” Bofur said cheerfully, walking forwards to inspect the nearest death trap.

“Aye, and a right poor job you’re doing of it at that!” Gloin agreed. The Dwarves roared in agreement, freedom buoying their spirits and making them careless _(and Bilbo doesn’t look to Kíli to see if he is joining in because he knows he won’t be)_.

“Have you lot got any idea _at all_ about how to be subtle?” he hissed instead at the company, eyes darting nervously to the butterflies in the corridor. They were calm; the Elves had not noticed them yet, despite the Dwarves’ best efforts at remaining quiet.

“Don’t worry so,” Bofur said comfortingly. “The Elves haven’t noticed you living in their pantry for a month, what makes you think they’ll notice us?”

Bilbo frowned at him. “I,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height and bringing his eyes level with the Dwarf’s chin, “am a thief, and a sneaky one at that.” ( _He didn’t think of the hearts in the sky, how easy it would be to reach forwards and send Bofur to the stars_ ). “So you should do as I say, and I say be quiet or the Elves will hear us and nobody will be escaping, barrel or no!”

There was silence for a moment and several of the Dwarves flicked their eyes uneasily to Thorin. Bilbo sought his gaze and held it, trying to convey with his eyes and the set of his jaw that he was serious, and being respectful to a displaced king could hang itself by its unwashed smalls for all he cared. Thorin’s stare was heavy and judging, and Bilbo was just beginning to wonder if maybe, maybe displaced kings should be granted the honour of at least washed smalls, before the dwarf snorted.

“Nice to see a bit of backbone, Master Burglar,” he said, and strode towards the barrels. Bilbo let out his breath and grinned, relieved to know he’d not lost Thorin’s acceptance over the past month.

The Dwarves grumbled good naturedly among themselves as they ambled forwards and slotted themselves into their barrels, and Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh as he flitted about, helping them in and sealing their lids shut.

“What about you, Bilbo?” Bombur asked. His heart flickered with kindness and concern, and Bilbo’s fingers itched to hide it somewhere safe.

“Don’t worry,” he said instead. “I won’t get left behind.” Bombur didn’t seem convinced, but nodded anyway as he withdrew into his barrel. Bilbo rubbed his chest again absently, the rough threads of his shirt scraping painfully over the multiple wounds there. He already knew he could breathe underwater, and he doubted that a few bangs against the rocks would do what entire search parties of the Elves had failed. (And really, he appreciated their efforts – one blond Elf in particular had been most thorough in his attempts – but they honestly were a most unimaginative lot. If it doesn’t die when you lodge an arrow in its heart the first time, perhaps try aiming somewhere else? Bilbo was morbidly curious to see what would happen if he tried to lose a limb. Would he still be able to dance with one leg? Steal hearts with no hands?)

Bilbo counted the barrels again, once more, last time for luck, and assured himself that all thirteen Dwarves were safe. Then, with a great heave, he pulled down the lever and opened the trap door. The barrels tumbled into the river accompanied by several indignant squawks and cries of shock from their occupants, and as he hit the foaming water below it was all Bilbo could do to grab onto the nearest barrel and wish his loyal butterflies farewell.

**xviii**

It was difficult, to say the least, to pretend that he was alright. He tried to joke and make sarcastic comments in the way that had always been so natural to him before, but they sounded forced and strange. He tried to relax among the group, celebrating their successful escape and accepting their praise, but every time he looked at them all he could see were their hearts, lit up and glowing and so _happy_.

He could almost reason that it would be a kindness, to take their hearts. To preserve this happiness while he could, to keep it safe and keep it hidden. His fingers twitched of their own accord, and he almost stole Balin that night.

It was the little girl that did it, in the end. Bard’s daughter, the child who was too young but looked too old, and he’d only meant to comfort her, only meant to coax a smile out of her. He told her stories, familiar stories that he remembered his mother telling him, and new stories about being used as a troll handkerchief and riding down the river in a wooden barrel. She’d laughed at that, and Bilbo had smiled fondly at her.

He hadn’t even realised until after she’d gone that he held her heart, a tiny crystal, a moment of breathless laughter preserved for eternity.

**xix**

“The others were looking for you,” Fíli said quietly, swinging his legs out onto the roof. Bilbo hunched his shoulders as the Dwarf manoeuvred himself to sit more comfortably and hurriedly ushered away the owl that had been resting on his knee.

“Well, that’s not very clever of them.” He tried to look sideways at the blond Dwarf, to see whether he had finally come to try and kill Bilbo, to remove the threat to his company and his brother once and for all.

But Fíli was unarmed. He was even relaxed, for the most part, his limbs held with the studious calm of someone trying not to tense up.

Bilbo was at a loss. He waited for a long moment for Fíli to make his accusations, to call him out for the monster he was and curse the day he joined their quest.

Nothing. Perhaps Fíli needed a little push?

“It’ll be full soon,” he remarked with a carefully light tone, gesturing at the moon and watching closely for Fíli’s reaction. Still nothing. Maybe there was hope? Or maybe Fíli didn’t know that he knew? “I’ll take myself away,” he offered, “Make sure I’m not a danger to anyone.”

Fíli did tense at that, though he still wouldn’t turn to face Bilbo. “And what about you? How will you make sure you aren’t a danger to yourself?”

Bilbo frowned, honest confusion breaking through his fear of what Fíli would do. “A danger to myself?” he echoed questioningly.

“Yes.” Fíli’s voice was firm and decisive, and for a second Bilbo wanted to be reassured by the thought that Fíli still cared for him.

“Fíli, I’m not – I’m a danger to _other people_ , to Kíli and you and everyone else.” He thought of Bard’s daughter and his jaw clenched. “I’m not a danger to me.”

Fíli shook his head, a strange expression on his face that Bilbo couldn’t recognise. “Haven’t you noticed?” he asked. “You’re almost as bad as Kíli, you know. When was the last time you smiled?”

“I _smiled?_ ” Bilbo repeated, his voice going somewhat higher and louder than he intended. “We’re going off to face a dragon and I’m a soul stealing demon, and you’re asking if I _smile?_ ”

Fíli ran his fingers through his hair in nervous frustration. “Mahal, I’m the worst person to have this conversation,” he muttered to himself.

“It’s a stupid conversation to have in the first place,” Bilbo pointed out unhelpfully.

“No, it’s not.” Fíli’s jaw came forwards stubbornly. “You’re hurting, you and Kíli both, and you’re becoming distant and sad all the time. You don’t talk to anyone, you don’t eat, you don’t _care_ about anything – not even yourself.”

“Fíli,” Bilbo said as gently as he could. “I care about a lot of things.” Fíli shook his head.

“If you cared about yourself you’d eat,” he said. “You’d have a bath and comb your hair and actually spend a night in a real bed for once. You’d let the company take care of you, let yourself be happy that you got us away from the Elves.” He turned to Bilbo with something like grief and something like helplessness on his face. “But you don’t. You don’t and Kíli doesn’t unless I make him, and can’t you see that that’s wrong?” He was almost pleading at the end, and Bilbo looked away uncomfortably from his gaze.

“It’s not wrong,” he said hoarsely. Fíli made an aggravated sound of protest, but Bilbo carried on speaking. “No, it’s – it’s wrong for Kíli, but that’s my fault. And so I can’t care about me, because I’m… I’m not worth caring about. And that’s _true_ Fíli, you know it – I’m dangerous, Gandalf told you, I hurt people and I shouldn’t be here, I don’t deserve – ”

Fíli hit him. It was not a hard punch, but the shock of it made Bilbo stop mid sentence and stare at the furious Dwarf.

“You,” Fíli ground out, “are a danger to yourself. I’ve lost my brother to whatever this is, and now I find that not only am I losing my friend, he’s _deliberately walking away._ And you don’t get to do that, Bilbo.” He reached forwards, gripping Bilbo’s shoulders too hard and staring mercilessly into Bilbo’s wide eyes. “You don’t get to just give up, you don’t get to make me worry myself sick over you – you don’t have the right to hurt us like that because you can’t see beyond yourself!”

He was panting, his fingers digging in painfully and his face twisted into an angry, desperate snarl. Bilbo stared, lost for words, until Fíli’s face crumbled. He leaned forwards, his forehead resting on Bilbo’s.

“Please,” he whispered, a small, broken sound. “Kíli won’t listen, but you aren’t so far gone as he is.” He breathed in a harsh, choking breath that was almost a sob. “ _Please._ ”

Bilbo was suddenly restless, suddenly angry. He pushed himself away and reached for Kíli’s star.

“You’re mistaking me for a victim,” he said harshly, and threw the diamond at Fíli, not bothering to look to see if the Dwarf caught it. “I’m not. I’m a Fairy thief, and I stole Kíli’s heart.” Vaguely he heard the sound of a sharply indrawn breath, and he smiled bitterly. It was sweet of Fíli to try and protect the Hobbit he thought Bilbo was, but once he knew the truth he’d leave. Bilbo didn’t even know why he’d come now – he remembered again the sharp pain of realising that Fíli was afraid of him, and it was an almost vindictive tone that he continued.

“Kíli’s love, his joy and his spirit are mine because I wanted them. But me?” Here he turned, quirking his lips into a parody of smirk and begging Fíli not to see how he hurt. He kept his gaze aimed above Fíli’s face so he wouldn’t have to see the hate and the condemnation. “I’m a demon. I never had any in the first place.”

With that, he stepped backwards and dropped off the roof. He hit the ground running, leaping off the wooden walkways of Laketown and leaving a trail of ripples as he ran across the lake.

It was the full moon soon. He’d be a danger to the others if he stayed.

Not that they would have let him.

**xx**

Bilbo didn’t return to the Dwarves after the full moon. He went instead to the Lonely Mountain and spent his time picking his way among the ruins of the great Dwarrow kingdom. Rare were the animals that dared venture so close to the caverns where Bilbo presumed Smaug still lay, but the birds were returning and there were always one or two to keep him company.

He hadn’t been able to sleep since the Mirkwood, but he rested all the same, curled up amongst the barren rocks and hiding from the bright sun during the day. He was a Fairy and a Fairy was him, and somehow it seemed wrong to step out under blue skies like a mortal would. At night he would stare at the sky and fix his eyes on the empty spot where Kíli’s star should have been, and he tried to feel glad that he was finally with his brother again. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded.

It was on his fourth night of exploring the ruins and the fallen Great Gate that Bilbo found himself inside Erebor. It had happened quite by accident; one of his owls had flown in and he’d lifted himself to his feet to see where it went. He hadn’t been expecting the wind that caught him, throwing him up to stand on a moon beam with his arms outstretched for balance. Once in the air though he couldn’t believe he’d ever lived without the feeling of weightlessness, the quick, playful jumps from raindrop to raindrop and the breathless swirl of cold as the wind carried him where he wanted to go.

It would have been easy to forget himself, to banish the painful thoughts of his Dwarves and their quest and give himself up to the moon and rain and dance as he did on the full moon. It would have been nice, to not have to hurt any more.

The empty sky where Kíli should have shone weighed him down like an iron chain, and Bilbo regretfully slipped down to let his feet stand on the cold stone floor of Erebor’s halls. He felt a silent rush of air as the owl glided past him, and set off in search of the treasury.

**xxi**

“Only four?” the strangely androgynous boy asked, leaning back against the wall of the treasury with a challenging smirk. “That’s barely any – are you even trying?”

“I’m trying not to,” Bilbo ground out, his jaw clenched and his weight settled unconsciously into a perfect fighting stance. Dwalin would have been proud, had the bear like Dwarf been there to see him.

“Trying not to?” the boy – girl? – repeated in surprise, the polished beads in his (her?) hair clanking together as he turned his head. “Why on earth not?”

“Because they’re – ” Bilbo began to answer, but with a sudden cloud of gold dust the being vanished, only to reappear a split second later hovering three feet off the ground directly in front of Bilbo.

“It’s not like you lack the strength – oh, one of each race, that’s neat!” it (it was a safe pronoun) said encouragingly, and Bilbo felt somehow violated as it peered into his precious collection of hearts. Suddenly the creature frowned, and looked up at Bilbo with honest concern.

“You’ve lost your Dwarf heart, you know that?” it asked anxiously. “And I’d give you a fresh one from one of mine, but there haven’t been any Dwarves here for years and I don’t know where else would have them.” Its genuine regret about being unable to help and the ease with which it spoke of the stolen hearts made Bilbo want to be sick.

“One of yours?” he asked instead, trying to keep his voice neutral. “You mean one of the Dwarves that lived here?”

“Yes, that’s it. I used to have thousands, you know? But then they left, and a dragon’s no good to me.”

“You took every Dwarf heart?” Bilbo’s mind was whirling. Thorin – Thorin had lived at Erebor, had been here when the dragon attacked. Did this strange, golden Fairy have Thorin’s heart?

“Oh, no,” it explained cheerfully. “I only took a few – not more than a couple of hundred at most from each generation.” A couple of – _a couple of hundred from each generation?_ Bilbo tried to imagine what that would do to the Shire. The entire population would lose their hearts, lose their joy and love. He tried to imagine the rolling green fields populated by listless, uncaring folk who spent most of their time staring bitterly at the moon as his mother had. It was impossible. It couldn’t – he couldn’t allow that to happen, not to his Shire.

“All by yourself?” he asked the Fairy, and he almost hoped that it denied the credit and revealed an army, because if one Fairy, if it only took one Fairy to destroy all the Hobbits of Middle Earth…

“Well, yes,” it answered with a shrug. “You’re the first other Fae I’ve seen since the Burning.” It laughed suddenly, delighted and high pitched, and Bilbo heard a thousand tiny hammers working with gold and a thousand tiny picks chipping gems out of the rock face. “Oh, it’ll be so much better with two of us! We’ll be able to travel, we’ll take hearts from every realm and fill every mountain with our treasure!” Something in Bilbo thrilled at the idea and his stomach churned in horror.

The Fairy stopped suddenly, and looked at Bilbo curiously. “How did you escape?” it asked curiously. “You smell like rain; how did you return to being above ground?”

“I didn’t return, I never left,” Bilbo answered warily. He didn’t feel it was wise to let the other know how young he was, how little experience he had.

The Faerie clapped its hands together, shrieking with laughter. “You mean you never sunk into the earth? You never traded your stars for gems hidden in the rocks, never lost the trees and the animals and the moon?” It didn’t seem to want an answer, so Bilbo stayed silent, staring at the creature and hating that it knew where he kept is hearts.

Suddenly, the Faerie stopped its wild celebrations. It dissolved again into gold dust, reappearing atop a pile of golden coins and spreading its arms out. “Do you like my treasure?” it asked. “I made the Dwarves collect it for me.” Its feet dislodged a cascade of coins which rolled down, clinking and chinking a merry tune as they went. It was music, of a sort, but only a crude imitation of the beautiful melody the raindrops made.

“Is that where your Dwarf heart is?” it asked, suddenly appearing in Bilbo’s personal space again. “Have you ensnared some mortal to collect treasure for you? It would take a long time with just the one heart, but I suppose you haven’t got many to spare…” Bilbo stood stoically silent while it flitted around him. He thought of Fíli, who held Kíli’s heart, and wondered idly what happened when a mortal was ensnared.

The Faerie clicked his fingers. “I’ll lend you mine!” he said cheerfully. It vanished before Bilbo could decline, and he vaguely heard the dull, tinny music of the gold coins sounding from the edge of the treasury. There was another flash of gold dust and the Fairy returned, presenting Bilbo with a glowing, blue-white gem slightly larger than his fist.

The second it touched his hands, Bilbo screamed as thousands on thousands of Dwarves shrieked their anger and their hatred at being used against their kinsmen. He raised his hands to his ears and fell to his knees, begging and crying for them to stop, but they only pressed harder against him until blood poured from his nose. His eyes were tightly closed but his vision was being taken over with dancing white spots as he struggled for breath, and there was a constricting band around his chest that felt like it would split him in half and still, still the Dwarves did not let up their onslaught against him –

Until suddenly, they were gone. Bilbo breathed in gulps of air that stung his throat and spat out the silver blood that threatened to choke him. He wiped his bleeding nose on his sleeve and retched; there was nothing to be sick from as he hadn’t eaten in over a month, but the bile stung his throat all the same.

“I’m sorry,” the Faerie was saying, running a hand down his back soothingly. It reminded Bilbo of the time his Dwarves thought he had drowned, and Bofur had steadied him while he recovered. “I didn’t know they’d do that. I’ve never given them to another Faerie before, and the mortals just do what they’re told and I don’t have to worry about them.”

The dawning realisation was cold, and Bilbo laughed bitterly. “You were trying to control me,” he accused, glaring at the golden Faerie.

“Of course,” it admitted easily. “You’re young, but you’re still above ground and you still have the moon. I rather like not having to share my Dwarves.” It glanced at him briefly, then dismissed his pain and began chattering happily about the Dwarrow kings and how he used the hearts of the mountain and the piles of his enchanted gold to control their every waking moment.

Bilbo didn’t bother to listen. He was angry, and the Faerie had unwittingly given him the knowledge he needed for vengeance – the fact that the Fae were vulnerable to the stolen hearts.

It was convenient then that Erebor housed a dragon, a dragon with a dragon’s heart ripe for the stealing that would breath dragon flame at Bilbo’s command.

**xxii**

Without his heart, Smaug was little more than a mindless beast. It was easy enough to trick him into leaving the mountain. ( _Bilbo feels that there is something he has forgotten, something terrible that he is allowing to happen but he can’t remember what and he isn’t bothered anyway_.) Unfortunately, the gold Faerie had made itself scarce – he wondered if it knew what he planned to do with the heavy, fire-filled star hanging low in the sky and found himself almost gleefully looking forward to the confrontation.

But that would have to wait – because now his Dwarves were arriving, and he’d cleared a path for them through the rubble of the front gate so that they could enter their home as the Dwarrow they were rather than sneak in the back entrance like petty thieves. He watched them from a perch high on the ceiling with something like pride and something like ownership as they marvelled over the great halls and exclaimed over the fine statues that had survived Smaug’s wrath. With a lazy, contented gaze he counted them, as a miser drunk on his own wealth would count his fortunes.

 _One two three four, six, seven, nine._ Nine Dwarves. Nine of his company walking through his halls, and he would guard them with dragon fire until they were happy and their hearts shone brighter than any star in the sky. Nine Dwarves…

With a shower of silver raindrops, Bilbo appeared in front of Thorin. The king reared back startled, Orcrist flying to his hand before he could comprehend who stood before him.

“Bilbo!”

“Where are my Dwarves, Thorin?” Bilbo growled, his voice low and dangerous. He took a step forwards, ignoring the fact that Thorin had yet to lower his blade.

“Where are Oin and Bofur and Fíli and Kíli, Thorin?” He took another step and felt a slight pressure against his chest. Thorin was staring with undiluted horror at his blade, but such details were inconsequential to Bilbo.

_“What have you done with my Dwarves?”_

“Laketown,” Thorin answered, finally tearing his gaze away from the three feet of Elvish steel in Bilbo’s chest. His voice was calm and steady, but there was a tenseness to it that betrayed his tightly controlled fear. “They’re in Laketown, they’re safe.”

Bilbo regarded him for a long moment before he accepted the statement as truth. He went to take a step back and frowned unhappily at the sword blocking his way. He could slide himself off it, but it was as easy to dissolve and reform himself, sitting cross legged on a moonbeam.

“Why are they in Laketown?” he asked. A couple of his other Dwarves flinched and for a moment he wondered why; his tone was light and pleasant now, they had no reason to feel threatened. He dismissed it with a shrug – mortals were strange creatures, and their ways were rarely rational. Thorin at least managed to hold his gaze steady.

“Bofur was wounded when Smaug attacked,” Thorin explained. “Oin works in the healer’s tent; he will join us soon.” Bilbo nodded, and pondered over the strange feeling of guilt he felt for setting a heartless dragon loose on a town of Men. He deemed it boring and irrelevant, and discarded the unwanted emotion.

“And Fíli and Kíli?” he prompted when Thorin was not forthcoming with further details.

Thorin hesitated, looking between Bilbo and his sword with an expression of fearful distrust that he could not fully hide. “They are sick,” he said finally.

Bilbo frowned. “Sick? How so? And why has Oin not healed them?”

“It is a sickness of the mind that grips them.” Thorin’s face twisted with grief, and behind him some of the other Dwarves lowered their heads in shared sorrow. “Kíli wanders as a ghost and recognises no one, and Fíli… Fíli will not be well while his brother suffers so.”

Bilbo sat back, considering. His Dwarves were in pain; he could see it clearly in their hearts. He should have stolen them all when the company was young and had not experienced such hard times; he could have kept them safe, then. But regret was a useless thing, so Bilbo spared little more than a fleeting thought on what he should have done.

“I’ll go to Laketown and bring the others,” he said firmly. The Dwarves stiffened and a couple of them looked to Thorin, but the king did nothing to refute Bilbo’s authority. “You will stay here, but be wary of the gold. I haven’t dealt with it yet, it may harm you.”

The Dwarves bristled, their anger finally piqued enough to break the strange atmosphere of silence.

“Be wary of the _gold_?”

“We’re Dwarves, we know what we’re doing around precious metals!”

“And what do you mean, dealt with it, eh? That gold belongs to Erebor, it’s not yours to do anything with!”

“It isn’t safe,” Bilbo said firmly, thinking of the golden Fairy and the casual, possessive way he had referred to the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain. His lip curled unbidden into a sneer, and as Bilbo passed his Dwarves on the way to the gate he took Ori’s heart and brought it with him. The young Dwarf’s heart was the lightest of his Dwarves’; it wouldn’t do for it to fall into unwelcome hands.

**xxiii**

Bilbo began the journey with his Dwarves back to the mountain that evening. It would have been faster if he had taken them through the raindrops as he travelled, but only two of them were fully his (the one with the head adornment, Bofur, was in severe pain from his burns. Bilbo took his heart to stop his suffering, but Fíli and Oin still had theirs) so he had to settle for taking them on foot.

They travelled frustratingly slowly, blanketed in a heavy silence. At first, Oin had complained – he had not wanted to leave his patients, and he fretted loudly that Bofur was not fit for travel. Bilbo thought the old Dwarf daft, but let him waste his breath until he realised his admonishments were ignored. He settled instead for fussing over Fíli as best he could and gazing at the other two Dwarves with a sorrowful disbelief. The few times his eyes strayed to Bilbo they were filled with nothing but hatred.

It unnerved Bilbo. Oin was a healer; surely he saw that what Bilbo was doing was helping the Dwarves? Under his care, Bofur was walking days before he should have been. And for all that Fíli seemed drawn and exhausted, for all that his sleep was fitful and his movements hunted and nervous, Kíli was relaxed and peaceful. Surely that showed it was better for Bilbo to protect his Dwarves, to take their light and their love and keep it safe in his sky?

Of course it was. Oin was old, and Fíli was sick; their thoughts were not their own. Bilbo forced his mind away from the conflicting feelings, content that he was doing the right thing.

But still, the doubt would not easily be dismissed once it had been formed.

**xxiv**

“They’re _my Dwarves!_ ” Bilbo screamed, flinging his arm forwards and sending a hail of glittering ice shards at the golden Fairy.

His opponent snarled in return, stamping its foot and causing a wave of gold coins to surge towards Bilbo. “Erebor has been mine for centuries, you think you can just dance in here on moonbeams and raindrops and _take_ it from me?”

A flash of silver and Bilbo had vanished, reappearing a foot above the other Faerie with Sting bared. “You had no right to them!” Steel met gold with a resounding clang as the gold Faerie raised a gem encrusted shield, but Bilbo was already moving into the next thrust, the next, and the next, always one step ahead. He grinned savagely because here, with a physical blade behind him, he was superior.

Suddenly the floor shifted beneath him, gold coins skittering treacherously out from underneath his feet. Bilbo found himself on his back, the other Faerie kneeling on his chest and pressing a sword against his throat.

“I had every right,” it hissed. “I didn’t even need to _offer_ them the heart stone, they came looking!”

Bilbo raised his hands to push the sword away with a wordless cry, but the Faerie just leaned forwards, digging the cutting edge of the blade in further. “Does it _hurt_ you, Raindrops, to know that your precious Dwarves sought me out? That they fear you, but they welcome the control that Gold has over them?”

Bilbo jerked his arm to the side and _pulled_ , engulfing both of them in a veritable tidal wave of animal spirits. Songbirds and rabbits; they made a surprisingly good army, driving the Faerie back enough for Bilbo to slip out and reach unseen for one of his stars.

“Enough!” the Faerie shouted, sweeping an arm out. The spirits froze, their pearlescent bodies turning dull and gold as they fell unmoving to lie on the piles of treasure. Bilbo spared them only a flash of annoyance at losing a resource that would take months to rebuild.

“You are a fool, Gold,” he said, his tone shifting to plead and persuade. “Orcs and Goblins and Men and Elves – the Dwarves can’t fight them all!”

“So?” the Faerie spat out, ugly and belligerent. “We let them fight and we take the hearts of the survivors, and the dead can rot in the fields. It matters nothing to us.”

“Of course it matters! If the Dwarves lose the battle, then Erebor will be empty – there won’t _be_ any survivors to gather the hearts from!”

“And for this you would have me give up my gold, my treasures and my hearts?” It answered hotly.

“For this I’d have you give up my Dwarves,” Bilbo grits out, “And let them act with clear minds to do what is best for their people!”

The Faerie laughs, low and mocking. “What is best for them?” it sang, sickly and sweet. “One would almost think you weren’t a Fae at all, my dear Raindrops, the way you _care_ for the mortals so.” It shifted its weight back to relax on its heels and leaned against the sword like a cane. “Or maybe,” it continued, voice cold and cruel, “Maybe you are more Fae than even I am, to betray them so sweetly while you promise to save them.”

Bilbo flinched, the words reaching something he had buried deep in his mind ( _a vision of his mother, smiling at him like it broke her heart, Fíli’s voice catching as he pleads for his brother to respond, the doubts that Oin had planted in his thoughts_ ). “I’m not betraying them.”

“Of course not,” the gold Faerie sneered. “And those aren’t the hearts of your precious company that you hold close to your chest because of course, you wouldn’t steal something so irreplaceable from someone that called you friend.”

“I took their hearts to protect them!” Bilbo yelled, his fingers clenching uncontrollably.

“Lies! You are a Faerie and you took them because you wanted them! You are no better than the rest of us, the murdering, _thieving_ Fae!” Bilbo turned his head away, not willing to accept the words. Maybe later, a voice in his head whispered desperately, maybe he’d deal with the swirling, painful thoughts when he didn’t have a battle to win, when the lives of his company and an army of Men and Elves didn’t rest on his actions. _Maybe never_ , he whispered back.

“Oh? What’s wrong, little Raindrops?” it said, voice dripping with false concern. “Did I speak wrong?” It paused, clearly waiting for Bilbo to rise, but was met with silence. A triumphant grin spread over its face and with a wave of its hand it called a golden throne to form beneath it. “Or did I speak the truth?”

“You spoke the truth,” Bilbo told it. His head was bowed in defeat and his throat was tight and his eyes were hot. “Everything you said.”

The Faerie laughed, a high and joyous sound. “Is that it then, Raindrops?” it said, pronouncing the name it had given him with an almost fond tone. “Don’t worry, you’re young; we all make mistakes.” With a shimmer of gold it stood in front of Bilbo, running its fingers soothingly through his silver hair. “And there’s more to the world than Erebor – I know that must seem strange to you, but there was a time when I travelled far and wide and saw many kingdoms, teaming with hearts. We’ll travel again, you and I, you’ll release me from this stone and return me to the moon and the world will be ours for the taking.”

It continued petting Bilbo’s head, murmuring calming nonsense as it did so, but Bilbo remained numb and unresponsive in the same position.

“Raindrops?” It asked, its voice gentle and kind. “Come now, it can’t be all that bad.”

Finally, Bilbo stirred.

“It can be that bad,” he said thickly, “Because _everything_ you said was true.” He looked up, eyes flat with hatred. “Including the fact that these aren’t the hearts of my company that I’m holding close to my chest.” He raised the pulsing diamond and blew, releasing Smaug with a single, savage breath. The gold Faerie had barely time for a frown to mar its falsely compassionate visage before the flames engulfed it and it was gone.

**xxv**

Bilbo stared around the treasure hall, his eyes blank and unseeing. Smaug’s heart curled around the gold much as the dragon himself had done in life, watching Bilbo patiently with a half lidded, hateful gaze.

Bilbo could call him back, he knew. He only had to raise his hand and the majestic creature would be nothing but a stone in his palm, a glowing stone to hang in the sky like a star.

And yet…

And yet.

He opened his fingers, staring at the collection of hearts he held. His mother, his oldest heart; the woman who was unfailingly kind but who never smiled, who needed to be reminded to eat and washed like a child by her husband. It was testament to his love and patient care for her that she deteriorated as fast as she had once he had died. The Elf maiden, strong and prideful, though dulled with the fear she felt when he took the heart. Bard’s daughter, young and wounded but still able to laugh. Ori, filled with an innocent wonder and a gentle glow.

His mother’s heart showed love. It was frozen as it was when he had captured it, and it showed love.

He thought of the charms and the way she had cautioned him to never leave the Shire; she had known what he was. She had known, as he had reached for her heart and stolen her happiness, that he was a demon. A monster.

Her heart showed love.

Fíli had cared for him, had worried about him.

But Fíli hadn’t known he was a monster, Bilbo argued with himself.

His mother had.

Bilbo turned the hearts over in his hand and wondered why they were precious to him, why it was important that his mother had loved him.

He looked up at the dragon and thought about the anger he felt when he realised that the gold Faerie had used the hearts of the mountain to ensnare his Dwarves. He felt his face settle into a grim determination and closed his fist, banishing the hearts to the sky. Smaug raised his head, looking at Bilbo with a wary curiosity.

Bilbo didn’t understand love, not like he thought he once had, but he understood that some things were important, and that was enough.

**xxvi**

“The Dwarves call it the Arkenstone. It’s a collection of hearts, thousands of Dwarrow hearts joined together into one stupid shiny rock.”

“And you will release me if I destroy it?”

“Yes.”

“Why should I take your word, _thief_? Why should I not burn you where you stand and be done with you?”

“I give my word and swear on my existence, on the moon that holds my heart. I will see you free or I will die trying.”

“And if you fail, then I swear on my wings and my horns that I will be there to make your death an unpleasant one.”

**xxvii**

The battle was brutal. Bilbo’s magics were useless against such enemies as the Orcs and the Goblins – they had no hearts, he could not touch them. At best he could turn their mounts against them and call up the owls and the thrushes to aim for their eyes, but it was a minor distraction.

He sat behind the healing tents clutching his hearts close, and felt when each one died. His throat was tight and his eyes were hot, but he was beyond tears.

He blew the diamonds into shimmering spirits and for a second, just for a second he was calmed by the joy and the love that the spirits showed.

“Go,” he told them quietly, and they paused in their laughter and turned to him. “Go away, you’re free! Go!”

Some of them did. The Elf, the little girl from Bard’s house, even Ori left him for peace and rest of the halls of the dead. The ginger Dwarf sketched him a bow before he faded, and his smile was quietly confident in a way that Ori never quite managed in life.

Bofur limped towards him, the burn scars from Smaug’s flames clearly visible through his torn coat. Bilbo closed his eyes and bowed his head against the flood of shame and guilt as he remembered his role in the dragon’s attack on Laketown, and how carelessly he had dismissed it at the time.

“Cheer up, Laddie,” Bofur said, and leaned forwards to place a kiss on Bilbo’s forehead. “You did what was right in the end, eh? Whatever else happens, know that you’ve got my forgiveness, and that’s all the really matters by me.”

Bilbo looked up, startled, and his breath caught. “I don’t deserve it,” he whispered, but Bofur only smiled as he started to fade.

“It’s not yours to deserve, Bilbo,” he said, “It’s mine to give.” And then he was gone, and even though Bilbo couldn’t cry he sobbed and buried his face in his hands in grief.

**xxviii**

It was his mother’s heart that led him to Fíli and Kíli’s side. The tent was guarded and Bilbo was sure he would be unwelcome, so he appeared next to their pallets in a shower of silver raindrops.

Kíli’s heart was threaded into Fíli’s hair, close to the temple on part of a braid so tightly woven that Bilbo feared he would need to cut it loose to free the heart it held so securely. His mother takes over, placing her hands over his shaking ones and guiding the gemstone free with patient fingers.

When he took it, Bilbo couldn’t help the soft exclamation of pain that escaped him as he felt Kíli’s helplessness, his desperate need to stop his brother's descent into madness, and above that, layered thickly around the gem until its shine was nearly lost, Fíli’s grief and pain.

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo told them in a shaking voice, hating that he couldn’t give them anything more.

When he blew on the gem all he saw was a sudden, fleeting glimpse of Kíli’s back, the young Dwarf already running to Mandos’ halls and searching for his family. On the pallet beside him, Kíli’s chest rose and fell for the last time. It was ironic, Bilbo thought, that Kíli should die with a smile on his face when he had been cursed into depression for so long.

**xxix**

Bilbo appeared to the Dwarves once. Not to all of them; he couldn’t face them all, but equally he couldn’t leave without saying something to someone.

In honour of Bofur, who had befriended him first and who had suffered so much, Bilbo went to Bifur and Bombur. He went in person, no showers of silver or dancing on moonbeams. They were wary, hesitant; the last time they had seen him, he’d been blank and emotionless.

He explained haltingly, as best he could. He apologised once and smiled tremulously when Bifur thanked him in thick, guttural Khuzdul.

And then he walked out of the room and left.

**xxx**

“Why did you bring me here?” Bilbo asked Gandalf.

“It is a pleasant enough place for a smoke, don’t you think?” Gandalf replied, puffing on his pipe.

Bilbo threw him a half-hearted glare. Gandalf bowed his head in acknowledgement, and allowed his cares to show on his worn face.

“Do you think I should not have brought you?” he asked.

Bilbo was silent for a long time. When he spoke, it was slowly, quietly, and pained.

“I would have caused less damage had I stayed in the Shire.” He thought of the silver bells and delicate chains that his mother hung around the smial, and wondered if he could have lived under their bindings his entire life and not known any better.

“And you would have done less good, too,” Gandalf pointed out. Bilbo tilts his head to acknowledge the point, though he feels no pride over ridding the Lonely Mountain of the gold Faerie and its’ heart stone.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. A rabbit made its way along the wall that Bilbo leant against and settled down by his side contentedly. Bilbo raised a hand to stroke its head, his demeanour subdued and thoughtful.

“Did you know?” The question was somehow meaningless and important all at once. It would make no difference if Gandalf had known his heritage; people would still have died and others would still have suffered and Dain would still have been crowned on a throne with an empty space above it from which the Arkenstone used to rule. But at the same time, even though nothing would have changed, Bilbo wanted to know. It _mattered_ if Gandalf had sent him out to the world without telling him what he was.

“No, I did not,” the wizard said finally. “I knew I was to bring you and so bring you I did.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said, and held out his hand for Gandalf’s pipe.

For a while, there was no sound other than the gentle puff of smoke and the whispering rumble of the wind through the trees above them.

“Will you stay?” Gandalf asked.

“I hardly think the Dwarves would approve.”

“Maybe not, but Smaug has left the land barren. It would appreciate a Faerie’s touch.”

Bilbo sighed. “I am tired, Gandalf,” he said plaintively, but the words do little justice to the bone deep weariness he felt.

Gandalf waited, and blew a flock of butterflies from his pipe. The silence dragged on, and Bilbo knew when he was beaten.

“I will dance for them at the full moon,” he conceded. “But after that I think I shall leave.”

“Where will you go?”

For what felt like the first time since he learnt his true nature, Bilbo smiled.

“I think I should like to travel,” he said.

**fin**

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tumblr! Come find me at [aethelar.tumblr.com](http://aethelar.tumblr.com)


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